Ruiner
by mr jokey joke-maker
Summary: The Joker is captured by someone as demented as he and doesn't get away without scars that warp him even further
1. Chapter 1

Ruiner

by: mr jokey joke-maker

DISCLAIMER: these characters belong to DC, I am making no money from writing this, posting it online, it's just for shits and giggles. If you sue me I'll have to sit in jail- I have no money.

There was the bat, right on cue.

Well, not really on cue. The winged avenger was early. Much too early. He drew his gun and started firing wildly in the Bat's direction, not really looking where he was aiming. His crew began doing the same. He and Harley locked eyes for a moment, but it was all that they needed.

They started to run.

"Son of a bus driver!" he screamed and kicked Harley in the ass as hard as he could. "Another foul-up, thanks to your incompetence! Stall him, idiot! And if you get thrown back into Arkham, blame yourself!" he shoved her towards the Dark Knight who was rapidly closing in on them. Harley squeaked in alarm, but her enhanced strength and meager fighting skills would give him the time he needed to escape.

He entered the stairwell and raced down it two steps at a time. He came to the bottom level and barreled through the exit.

Or at least, he'd thought it was an exit. He was surrounded by utter blackness, the only light came from the small 4" by 16" window in the metal door. He turned around to make a hasty retreat and found himself locked in.

"What-?" he snapped in outrage. _They're not supposed to lock me in, _he thought with a snarl.

_If I find the jack ass who did this, I'll gut him._ He turned back and stared into the darkness. It took a few moments but his eyes began to adjust and he began to make his way through a maze of clutter. There had to be another exit, and if not, there had to be something in all the crap piled everywhere that he could use to open the door. Something to break the window perhaps-

"Are you lost, sir?" he heard a deep voice inquire. Before he could turn or raise his arm to fire his .38, something jammed into his chest and pain jolted through him. His limbs locked and refused to obey his commands. _A taser_.. He thought numbly. Then something cold and wet was pressed over his mouth and nose and another hand locked onto the back of his head. He held his breath as long as he could, but knew he couldn't wait much longer when bright spots began to dance in his vision. As soon as he sucked in the foul, chemical-laden air the whole world began swimming, then blackness..

He awoke with a rope around his neck. He was hand-cuffed, his wrists raised above his head where a hook kept the cuffs in place. The rope was tied up somewhere and fashioned into a noose. The rope was slack but as soon as he tried to move a huge beast of a man came into view.

"I'm glad your awake. I didn't realize who you were when I caught you- you can imagine my surprise. And my delight, I'm sure. At first I thought I might let you go, but then I realized I was forgetting who you are. You cannot leave here alive. No one else does, anyway." he smirked. "You can be my toy, until I break you. My toys always break eventually.." he seemed a bit put-off at that. Joker began to giggle.

"You-? Kill...me?" he began to laugh, and the laugh grew to nearly a roar. Every time he felt his mirth begin to die away he would open his eyes and see the man before him growing more and more enraged. His laughter grew to hysterics until he felt his eyes watering. The man scowled. He looked as though he was trying to be patient, but it was clear he didn't like to be laughed at. He grabbed a fistful of green hair and yanked the Joker's head back, bashing the back of his head against the pillar he was tied to.

"You fail to understand your predicament, and you are fearless. I will do my best to change that."

The noose tightened. The cuffs were most likely police issue, and as tight as they could be without completely cutting of his circulation- they would be tough to get out of. He was pulling at them anyway. And when he could no longer hide his need to gasp for air he began to lose what calm he was able to maintain. He tugged at the cuffs until his wrists began to burn with pain and he could feel blood begin to trickle down his arms. He thought his eyes were going to pop out at any second, that his lungs would collapse. Then the noose grew slack and he gasped for air.

He choked and giggled, the man slapped him. He sucked down more air. "You silly little fool!" he spat. He was growing dizzy. "I'm the batman's punching bag." he noticed the man was quite close and kicked him as hard as he could. He nailed him in the balls. The man choked, grabbed at his crotch, and fell over. Joker tried to kick him more as he struggled with his restraints, but the fool had managed to roll out of reach. He clutched at the cuffs and tried to pry them up, over his hand. He grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight, forcing his thumb toward his palm. The cuff was slowly inching upward. The man was rising to his feet.

"You rotten little-!" he howled, enraged, sounding very much like a child throwing a tantrum. Joker chuckled weakly. "Don't laugh!" he bellowed, charged, and gave him a powerful blow to the face. His head hit the metal pipe behind him. He blacked out for a second. The man's fists slamming into his sides forced the air from his lungs. He felt a rib snap. "Ill make you scream for this.." the man swore. The Joker clenched his jaws hard, he wouldn't scream. Each blow grew more forceful. But, as he'd said, he was not unfamiliar with pain- beatings, blows to the face, broken bones... These things he'd dealt with before. He could tolerate more pain and punishment than most. The more they hit him in the head, the faster he went numb until all he felt was a slight pressure, no real pain. It always hurt the most when he was healing anyway. Once the bastard got tired he would escape, chop his head off, and find some place to heal and hide from the bat.

The man was shaking him, slapping him, he was yelling. He could tell by the buzzing in his ears. The man looked indignant- was he waiting for a response? He hadn't been paying attention.

"Oopsie.." he mumbled, giggling drunkenly.

"I won't be ignored!"

"You claim to have done this before, but honestly, the bat does a better job at hurting people than you and he's supposed to be the good guy." Joker laughed again. The man's hands around his throat shut him up.

He lay shivering, gasping so hard his lungs ached. He didn't know how much more he could take, bright spots were dancing in front of his eyes. Next time he would lose consciousness and suck in a lungful of water.

Perhaps that was the point. How embarrassing- to drown in a few inches of water. Well, technically it wouldn't be his fault. But he refused to be killed by one such as him. The man was nothing, nobody. He_,_ on the other hand, was the Joker, damn it! The man released him and he fell back against the pillar, gasping weakly. The man cursed and stormed away. He began to tug at his bonds again. After two days he had broken the chains holding his cuffs together. The man had been holding his head under water, he had an apparent fondness for it. He'd done it several times in the past... hour or so, he ventured to guess. He held him under until he began to panic. It was more natural instinct than anything. He'd been holding his breath just fine, then he was frantically trying to escape. The man would release him after a few seconds and laugh as he lay choking and gasping for air. But each time the man held him under longer, and his vision began to fade. Apparently he'd had a seizure- he vaguely recalled seeing his legs kicking wildly through a haze- as if he was just waking and his eyes were only open a tiny slit. He had come to slowly, exhausted and shivering.

Eventually he slipped out of his restraints. He couldn't move for a long while, he'd nearly wept in frustration as he lay in a heap. His opportunity for escape was slipping right through his grasp. He managed to crawl a few feet before vertigo hit him. The intensity of it left him gasping, clutching the floor to keep from being thrown off. He curled up in a miserable ball, gasping for air. When the dizziness finally abated he felt weak as a newborn kitten. He was not surprised when he felt himself about to lose consciousness. He cursed his traitorous, weak body. He cursed God, the Batman, Harley, but most especially, the man- the bastard - the nobody..

He woke to find himself being dragged back to the column. He was too exhausted to fight, his eyes closed again.

The next time he opened his eyes he was tied facing the column. He heard the muted sounds of a television in the background. His hands were tied with coarse rope that dug into the newly forming scabs on his wrists. His coat, shirt, and vest were gone.

"He's awake is he?" he heard the detested voice murmur. "I've a new present for him. Maybe this way I can make him scream." He tensed up at the man's words and hated himself for it. He heard the man's foot steps as he came near. He straightened and looked over his shoulder. The huge bastard had a bull whip. He did despise those things. The cat woman had given him a lash once and he had yet to repay her in kind. It had stung like a bitch and this man meant to hit his exposed flesh with it? He felt his stomach drop. I will not scream, he thought, I will not-

He heard the thing descending. He tensed even though he knew it would probably hurt more, yet he couldn't help himself. The pain was terrible. He grit his teeth so hard he thought they might crack. Again and again the man struck him. He prayed he would go numb but it did not happen. He felt his blood beginning to drip down his back.

When the beast finally quit he was sure every inch of his back was flayed open.

"How did that feel, my little doll?" the man breathed in his ear. He flinched violently at the man's closeness, striking his temple against the column. And when the man laughed he felt overpowering rage.

"I'll cut your balls off and feed them to you for this." he hissed.

"Don't you dare use such filthy language!" the man shrieked and the whip fell again.

"Fuck, shit, cunt!" Joker screamed.

"Shut up! Shut up! Dirty, filthy scum!" the man roared, hitting him harder. For a moment the pain receded, he was losing consciousness again. He felt laughter welling up, insane, hysterical laughter. He laughed until tears began to fall from his eyes. And the man kept screaming.

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

"Make me you little shit, you'll have to kill me!" he gasped as the man yanked his head back. He suddenly laughed down into his face.

"Torturing you is more fun- and even if you did somehow manage to escape-" he lightly touched the Joker's shredded back. "You'll never forget me."

He saw red, he finally let loose a feral roar. But it wasn't a shriek of pain or fear as his captor hoped, but of raw, unhinged rage. He thrashed desperately, tried to slip his bonds, all to no avail. The pain was starting to pierce the cloud of hatred and anger that sustained him. When he finally calmed down he was alone, his eyes burned, his throat ached. Each movement was agony. He swallowed his pain like bitter medicine. He would not be broken.

He awoke into the perpetual darkness. For a moment he didn't know what happened or where he was. Then the flood of agony hit him and he remembered all to well. How long had he been tied to the column? How long had the man been turning his flesh into bloody ribbons, burning him with cigarettes, strangling him? He wasn't sure. He was so hungry he was sure that alone would kill him, if his wounds weren't already infected.

He hated the man, his captor. Hated him with such intensity all he could think was 'hate him hate him hate him...' No one had the right to hurt him in any way, not like this. No one had for so long... He snarled bitterly, it wasn't fair.. His little flings with the bat were nothing. This.. This made him feel like he was home again, except it was worse.

Hatred had defined his existence for so long it was truly second nature to him. Now it was fresh and new again, and more potent than it had been for a long time. It was pumping adrenaline through him more often than not as he sought to slip his bonds again and again. Yet the cuffs were too tight, he couldn't move without them tearing his flesh anymore. He felt panic welling up in his chest. It was another emotion he hadn't felt in years and years, he hated it. He couldn't break free, he had been leaking blood for days- he wasn't even really sure how long it had been. He had to escape.

"Hate you.." he mumbled weakly, he tasted blood. He was exhausted. The rage would leave him, and he would wilt like a broken flower. When he was being beaten or strangled, he lay on the cold floor. Sometimes he stared blankly at the ceiling, sometimes he was unconscious. The ever-present pain was weakening him. Moving would exacerbate things, so he began to lie as still as possible. The faint light from the television that peeped through a wall of junk separating him from the man's "living room" began to hurt his eyes, so he looked away.

The pain was winning. He had tried so very hard to smile and laugh, but at the moment, laughing was extremely painful. It made him more furious than anything when he realized he was lying in a puddle of his own blood. Laughter always stuck in his throat. He could find nothing amusing in his situation. That alone was enough to bring out his homicidal tendencies. His hands were itching to tear the man's throat out.

Time had ceased to have meaning in his private hell. He supposed he might just deserve the terrible abuse he'd received (and would continue to), but the thought was easily dismissed. No one had the right to hurt him like this. He gingerly sat up and groaned softly as wounds on his back reopened. Thoughts of revenge had taken a back seat to survival. He had to escape while he had a chance. He had lost a fair amount of blood each day, he could no longer eat or sleep (not that the man had offered any food- and rest was merely unconsciousness). It wouldn't be long before he cracked permanently (and not in a funny way)- like Humpty Dumpty. Irreparable, catatonic, mush-brained, revolting, stare-at-the-wall-and-drool insanity. That was not for him, he was meant for better things.

"Ha. Ha. Ha." he said, his voice a rusty croak. "Hey asshole!" he called out into the darkness. That always got a response. At least, when the man wasn't asleep.

Silence. He had to be quick.

The rope had loosened a bit and the man had never secured it, and he learned why as soon as he began to move in earnest. Half of the gashes on his back were tearing anew. He froze, his eyes snapping shut. He moaned as agony rippled down his spine. For a moment he lay still, panting. Then his hands began to move. Soon he was in a frenzy, trying to wriggle his hands free of the ropes. He leaned forward, he felt warmth sliding down his back, felt it coat his arms and suddenly one hand was sliding free. He was halfway there. He was sweating and shivering by turns and blood continued to seep down his naked flesh. He tugged until his hand jerked free.

He rested for a moment. Blood was soaking into his pants again. He had easily lost a pint of blood during the days (weeks?) of hell. He was so cold lately, probably due to blood loss. The dizziness that swamped him when he rose to his feet was another result, he assumed. He stood still, trying to will the nauseating dizziness away. Finally it left him and he opened his eyes.

His eyes had grown all too accustomed to the darkness. Faint blueish light fell on all the rows of junk in the huge basement. The only light came from between the boards that covered all the tiny windows. He knew that if he did find the exit, the outside sun was going to hurt his eyes badly. He'd been in the dark for too long. He'd been lying in his blood and sweat for too long. He figured he was fortunate the guy had let him use the bathroom. He snorted at the irony. The fucker was brainwashing him! HIM! He was above these petty torments (he'd always thought) and the man was never going to break him. He shuffled towards the door. It had always been so close- was it to torture him further, to always know that freedom was only a few feet away?

He had never tried to escape from Arkham right after the Batman had returned him, broken and mangled. So it came as a shock to him, just how difficult and painful it was, each little step. When he reached the door he was gasping for breath, exhausted.

Then again, the Batman had never hurt him this badly, made him bleed this much (all at once, anyway). He pushed the door. It didn't budge. He gasped and shoved harder. Nothing. He felt his heart began to pound. He pawed around and felt a bolt and turned it with a sigh of relief. He again tried to open the door. It made a terribly loud noise, and he cringed, hoping no one had heard. His fear made him furious and he shoved with all his might.

The flood of sunlight burned his eyes so badly, he screeched in agony and clamped his hands over his face. He put his shoulder to the door and pushed hard until it swung free and he fell onto the steps leading up to the alley. He crawled up the stairs with his eyes clenched shut. Even the orange glow behind his eyelids stung terribly. But he was a sitting duck if he didn't make the adjustment quickly.

He opened his eyes again. Everything seemed to be bleached, sunlight was pure white to him. His flesh... he wanted to close his eyes, but couldn't. He was covered in cuts, terrible gashes, burns, welts, bruises of every color and size.

He stood, stock still, paralyzed with rage. How dare he? How _dare _he? He didn't know wether he should run away or back inside to kill that piece of shit. He scanned the dismal, cluttered alleyway, nothing remarkable about it in anyway. He looked up, no discernible landmarks anywhere. He grit his teeth, swallowing a scream of fury. There was nothing he could do. He began to limp away from his private torture chamber. He would find his way back somehow, all that mattered now was that he get away.

Each step was agony. He was tired and dizzy, and why hadn't anyone spotted him yet and run away screaming? As if to answer his silent question, a disheveled homeless man came into view, took one look at him, and did an about-face, hurrying the other way.

He chuckled weakly at the irony of his situation. Had a police officer shown up, he might have actually been relieved. He could still feel blood trickling down his back, the way the dried blood cracked and itched his skin, the way each wound throbbed with each step he took, and the way his head was beginning to pound. He... probably should find help of some kind, even if it led him back to Arkham.

He had spotted several more people, but they had all run away. And he heard no sirens, were they really not going to call the cops? He was almost disappointed.

Then a thought occurred to him, and he was shocked it hadn't earlier. Harley would help him. All he had to do was find her, call her. He wasn't sure if she had been taken back to Arkham, but he could and desperately needed to find out. He looked behind his shoulder and gasped when he still saw the open door from whence he'd come. It seemed hours had passed! He was stunned. It was then that the full gravity of his situation hit him. He was completely out of it, he had to get moving. He lurched forward a little faster and gasped as pain tore across his back. He glanced behind him, he was leaving a small trail of blood. He reached the corner, groaning and shaking. He was sweating, he was going to be ill. His head spun again, so much he felt drunk. He staggered and nearly fell. He clutched the brick wall to his left, he was nearly at the corner, only a few more steps to go..

The stench of the river hit him, along with the dying rays of the sun. He was near the docks, and he remembered vaguely running from the Batman days ago to this same spot. He scanned the area. It was deserted... He clenched his fists, wanting to shriek in frustration. There had to be a pay phone somewhere, he hoped.

He walked on and on. The sun had set hours ago and still he walked. He could think of nothing other than putting one foot in front of the other. He found a few pay phones and had tried several times to reach the hide-out.

Time and again no one answered.

He was hurting terribly, he was so tired, he was moving purely through his own will. His head was ready to split, nausea dogged him, and even though the temperature had cooled considerably, he was still sweating.

He saw a long dark car up ahead, very familiar. He looked around, but wasn't really seeing anything with clarity, the world had blurred to many shades of blue, black, and gray.

"Joker." A voice, also a familiar one at that. He stopped, his knees immediately buckled. "Giving up already?" that voice sounded so damned imperious, he sneered hatefully even as the world spun and heaved sickeningly. He opened his eyes, he was in the shadows, his long-time enemy was drawing close. He tried to stagger to his feet but fell again. The Dark Knight drew closer, wary as always, poised as if to fight.

He watched the Joker try to rise and fail, and that had raised his suspicions. That he was clad only in a pair of purple trousers was highly irregular, and again he wondered what was amiss. The clown groaned weakly, murmuring incoherently. Part of him knew it was most likely a trick. The clown loved it when people thought him weak- he always used it to his advantage and proved how very wrong they were. But when he took a few more steps closer, when he was towering over the shivering figure, he saw the blood. To say he was horrified didn't really begin to cover it.

Burns, cuts, huge gashes weeping crimson, bruises upon bruises, and was that a rope burn around his neck? Had to be judging by the pattern.

"What the hell?" he gasped before he could stop himself. He almost forgot that he hated the man in front of him, almost forgot all the times he wanted the clown to suffer- he couldn't help but see a victim of sick torture, someone brutalized horribly. Joker chuckled flatly. The white, pristine skin was a horror show. Someone had taken their time with him. Someone had meant to leave marks that would never fade. Someone wanted him to pay and never forget.

"Oracle, I need an ambulance down on east 9th and Forsyth, right at the docks." she gave an affirmative and didn't ask questions, for which he was grateful. He knelt next to his enemy. He winced when the Joker immediately flinched away and hugged his knees to his chest. "I'm not going to hurt you, you've been hurt enough already." The Joker scoffed and it ended in a rough gasp as pain obviously tore through him. He shivered and dropped his head, resting his forehead on his knees. "Who did this?"

"Nobody." he snarled, then trembled violently. "I-" he said nothing for a long moment, his eyes shut tight. "I'm dizzy." His voice was very quiet, lifeless almost. Batman reached out to gently tug his hands away and shove his head between his knees to keep him from passing out, but as soon as he touched the man's wrist his reaction was violent and heart-wrenching. "NO!" he shrieked, jerking back, crying out in pain as his momentum sent him flat on his back. He choked in agony, rolled onto his side, and curled up again in a flash. "Don't touch me." he murmured between gasps.

"I just want to help." his whole body was shaking, his voice was low and rapid as if he was fervently uttering sacred prayers.

"Don't touch me, don't touch me." he continued, not hearing him. Batman shook his head in astonishment. As if the man before him didn't have enough mental issues, now he could add severe trauma to the list. His face was pressed to the pavement, the tremors that raced through him were so violent, he wounds were reopening and spilling fresh blood.

"Calm down, it's alright. I won't touch you." he murmured softly, trying to sound reassuring. God only knew how the clown would react when the paramedics showed up. He could faintly hear the sirens in the distance. "Help is on the way." The Joker only shook his head in negation and clutched his pounding head. The paramedics arrived moments later and when their headlights fell on the prone figure next to him they gasped aloud. The blood was everywhere, fresh, dried, caked on, flaking off, soaked into the back of his pants halfway down to his knees. Bruises of every color and shape- this had been going on for days.

"Jesus Christ."one of the paramedics gasped, because of the brutal damage, or because the victim was the Joker, he wasn't sure.

"The ambulance is here. Will you be calm or do I have to tie you up for them?"

"No touching, no touching.." he still chanted quietly. Gods he'd gone off the deep end. Batman motioned for them to stay back.

"That ambulance is here Joker. Will you come along peacefully or do I have to make you?" The pale man stiffened and looked back at him in a manner that could only be described as fearful. "No one is going to hurt you, they will treat your wounds." He shivered again and seemed to relax.

"I- I don't care anymore." his voice was hollow, dead. His features set into a mask of blank indifference, he'd never seen the look on his face before. He rose unsteadily, and seconds later was falling. Batman caught his elbow and steadied him until he wrenched away and climbed into the back of the ambulance on his own power and collapsed on the stretcher. He did nothing, said nothing when the batman cuffed him to the stretcher. His personality was warping again right in front of his eyes. It was as fascinating as it was disturbing. And he had little doubt that any change would be for the worse.

He lay on his stomach, for what else could he do? The doctors had given him over one hundred stitches in his back and bandaged him up tight. After a tetanus shot, men from Arkham had come to collect him.

He couldn't speak, his rage was too great. He could think of nothing but the man who had hurt him, the man had nearly won. In fact a part of him was wondering if maybe he had. For the first time in years he felt fear. Every time one of the doctors had touched him, he'd flinched. And every time he flinched he felt a deep, paralyzing fury. He had to heal, and fast. He had to heal and escape, and find the man- find the man and tear him apart.

His hands were twitching with the need to crush someone's larynx- someone whose name he didn't know, but whose face he would always remember.

He wanted to scream, needed to. The pain and rage were building into a fierce storm within him, but he was exhausted. And he was, frankly, in agony. Each movement sent pain radiating across his back. He couldn't see the damage, but he had heard the horrified gasps from some of the nurses. Even the big, bad bat had been shocked. His fellow inmates were quite curious, much to his disgust. He saw no mockery in their faces- that he couldn't endure. It was shock, plain and simple. He felt a shriek trapped in his throat. He shut his eyes tight. How could it happen to him? Him of all people! He was the monster, not the victim! He buried his face in his pillow, he clenched his fists tight. He was swamped by a strangely familiar feeling of dread. For an instant he saw himself as a small boy, hiding under his bed.

Rage instantly replaced the sickening feeling. He hadn't been so vulnerable in a long, long time. He had been hurt- he had bled and his bones had been broken. But for years it had nearly always been at the hand of the bat. And the bat didn't kill. And he knew it. He had always hoped to be the one to push him over the edge.

"Now I will surely succeed." he murmured. But he knew it wasn't entirely true. In his present state he was incapacitated by fury. He could think of nothing but his anger, his hatred towards the man in the basement. The Joe Blow who had taken his laughter away and replaced it with blinding hatred. "Only death will stop me now." he hissed, gingerly rolling onto his side. He flinched as a particularly large wound sang in protest. "I'm going to kill the world... Then I'll get him. I'll get the bat too.. Get everyone..."

A doctor and two guards entered his cell, but he didn't move or even turn to look at them. When he felt their hands on him he was shocked to find he had neither the strength or will to resist them. They spoke quietly and handled him gently. It wasn't typical behavior among the staff when dealing with him. Did they know what he was just beginning to fully grasp? He was a mountain of rage. He had been twisted further than ever. Warped by more abuse and trauma then he could handle. Yet he was shutting down. He was beginning to withdraw. He felt a needle enter his flesh and shuddered, closing his eyes tight. He heard his door shut. When he opened his eyes again the world was a blur.

He was healing slowly. It was unusual for him. But it was perhaps explained by the fact that he refused to leave his cell. He barely rose from his bed. They had not heard a giggle out of him since before he'd escaped. His face was often blank, sometimes twisted in fury, sometimes even a rare flash of pain scarred his white flesh.

The doctors were worried, of course. They didn't need to probe him with questions to know he was simmering with rage, biding his time as he healed. The orderlies that worked night shift reported he often awoke at night and sat with his knees drawn to his chest, staring forlornly at nothing.

When he realized he could move without agonizing pain he demanded to be let out of his room. He had been behaving, had he not? He demanded to know. The doctors were leery, he was not to be trusted to move about freely. They put him in a straight jacket and allowed him to enter the common room.

Many eyes were upon him. They noted with shock his furrowed brow, the scowl set on his ruby lips. He stomped over to the TV and plopped onto the couch. Harley flounced over in delight.

"Puddin'!" she cooed, sitting carefully next to him. He submitted to her fawning and pawing for only a moment before he recoiled.

"Stop." he commanded, his voice dark with menace. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but her touch made him slightly nervous. The feeling of hands upon him unnerved him. The realization infuriated him. Harley was his, and he had worked hard to make her just right. He used to enjoy her complete adoration.

"Puddin' you ok?" he looked at her, really looked. She was beautiful, insane, his most loyal accomplice, and she was his. She smiled softly, hoping to encourage one from him. He shook his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. After silent deliberation she pulled him close. He lay his head on her chest and sighed, closing his eyes. The anger had left him for the moment. He had never felt so empty.

He slipped out of his cell late one night. He did not mean to escape. He was still injured, still sore. Too sore to run anywhere. He broke into the women's ward, knocked the night guard out. He stared at her for long moments, knowing he had to tie her up and gag her, but feeling oddly reluctant. He used her own hand cuffs, and stuffed one of her socks in her mouth. He sealed her lips shut with tape. He stole her keys and let himself into Harley's cell.

She awoke as soon as he opened the door. He stood over her bed for a moment and just stared down at her.

"Puddin' is that you?" she murmured thickly.

"Harley.." he breathed. She sat up in alarm.

"Puddin' are we escaping?" he sat down on the edge of her bed. She felt her eyes adjusting and peered into his face. She had never seen such an expression on his face, but the rational part of her was quickly noticing several extreme emotions. The rage was ever present, but she also saw terrible grief, the like of which she'd yet to see him express. She reached out and pulled him close and lay back, pulling him with her. He did not resist. He was shaking.

"Mistah J!" she murmured, "What is it? What's wrong? You can tell your Harley-girl." she slowly rubbed the back of his neck, it being the only place that would not cause him pain. She wanted nothing more than to find the man who had dared to hurt him and rip him to pieces.

"No." he said and clung to her. She understood. And her heart ached. She kissed his forehead and ran her fingers through his hair. She tugged her blankets up over them and he sighed shakily. His eyes were clenched tight, he clutched her so tightly it hurt.

It had been such a long time since he'd needed her, since he'd sought her out for comfort. She couldn't help but feel a little warm as he held her tight, his cheek resting on her shoulder. But in all honesty, she'd rather he came to her out of desire, not when he looked as if he was falling apart. It was too unfair, she thought, he was not supposed to feel miserable, that was for the rest of the world. His breathing was finally slowing, he was calming down. He suddenly wrenched away and stormed out of her cell, shutting the door behind him.

"Hey!" she cried in disbelief.

He had to get away from her. What had he been thinking? The pathetic display of weakness left him even more infuriated. He had to get the hell out, and quick. He set off the nearest fire alarm and hurried into the stairwell in the confusion. He made his way to the bottom level and into the basement.

As soon as he entered the room he shuddered, but forced himself to continue. There was a dusty old storage room with a broken window that he had used once before to escape. He hoped they had not found it and repaired it. It was as dusty as he'd remembered and the window was still broken. He smiled for the first time in almost two weeks.

TBC

Part 2 will show what he does after his escape.


	2. down in it

Ruiner

mr jokey joke-maker

chapter 2 - down in it

"'I am down on whore's and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled.'" he murmured softy to himself before a low, throaty chuckle escaped him. His mood had improved greatly upon his escape. It usually did, but this time was especially gratifying. He could now could seek out the fool that had dared to scar him up and down. He was still swaddled in bandages. But he had been taking care of it as much as he could. He would rather it be Harley dressing his wounds but he'd neglected to help her escape. His method worked just as well. After showering he dumped peroxide down his back. The first time he'd been enraged at the intensity of the pain it had caused, but that was nothing compared to wrapping himself up in gauze afterward. The slightest snag on a stitch would set his teeth on edge. But it was the best he could do, and when he gazed at the damage in the mirror, he had to admit he was healing. He dreaded the day his wounds started to itch as the healing progressed. And he was annoyed to admit that he would unlikely be able to remove the stitches himself. He was talented, but he'd have to be a contortionist to be able to manage that feat. Perhaps Harley would make herself useful and break out so she could do it for him. Maybe he'd send one of his boys out to Arkham to help her out..

He drove towards Gotham Harbor. He knew he had to be careful and quiet if he was to find the bastards lair without attracting attention. "'I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me and my funny little games.'" he said and laughed louder, yet with a dark undercurrent of rage and hatred in his voice. He was especially loathe to attract the attention of the bat. He drove all the way down 9th until he hit Forsyth St. He remembered the bat calling in those streets to the dispatcher or whomever he'd called that night. The docks were empty and silent before him. He pulled the ratty car he'd stolen into an alley.

The whole area was familiar. The moon was full in the sky and lit up the ground perfectly. He began to scan the pavement, searching for the bloody trail he'd left. He was lucky- it was early August, no rain had come to wash away his path to the dead man's door. It took him almost two hours of searching to find it. He grew furious with impatience and the driving need for revenge. He was about to start screaming in rage when he spotted several dark stains. "'My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance.'" he breathed. He quickly noticed several spots further away, and more after that. He began to follow the trail and it led to the short set of steps that led down to a door with a small window.

During the long hours spent at Arkham, he had become an expert lock-picker. He pulled out his knife and made short work of the old locking mechanism. He left the door wide open. The alley was deserted and it was nearly midnight, no one would intrude upon the scene. He had a tiny pen-light that he scanned the walls near the door with. He found the light switch and soon had the whole area well-lit. He did not care to have the element of surprise, he wasn't the bat or a ninja, and he certainly wasn't afraid. There was no room for fear, only hatred and rage.

"Hey asshole!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. He waited several moments and heard nothing. If the man was not there he didn't know what he'd do. The thought sent him running down the aisles until he came to a dead stop at the one familiar place in the whole basement.

His blood still lay thick upon the pavement. The ropes that had tied him were there as well. It infuriated him such that he reached for the nearest shelf stacked with junk and pulled it down with a cry of rage. And there sat his man on the other side. A gasp escaping him, he drew his gun and aimed. The man did not move a muscle. A plastic bag was over the man's head. His pants were around his ankles.

"No way.." he murmured, unable to believe what he was seeing. "You can't be..." he murmured, approaching slowly. The man's chest did not rise or fall, he did not move. And it was then that he noticed the stench of death lingering upon the air. "No, it's not fair.." he said, his eyes growing wide. "This isn't happening.." his thought processes were grinding to a halt. "I'm dreaming.." he saw the condensation inside the plastic bag, the icy tint of the man's flesh, so like his own. "I'm hallucinating.." He saw the flaccid cock still in the man's hand. Had it been anyone else he'd be laughing hysterically. But it wasn't someone else. It was his intended victim. His sweet vengeance was stolen from him.

"No, no, no..." he murmured. He raised his gun. It shook wildly in his grip. "No!" he screamed and began to fire. The silence was shattered by the blast of gun fire. The man was hit several times, but he did not move save to be thrown back by the force of the bullets. The wounds barely seeped any blood. He was dead all right. He fired until he emptied the clip and then threw the gun at the plastic-wrapped face. He was shaking uncontrollably. He fell to his knees and howled, slamming his fists against the concrete.

He screamed until he couldn't utter a sound. He then stood on shaking legs and stumbled out of the clutter filled basement. "It's not fair.." he moaned. He walked out the door and up the stairs to the alley. His eyes darted about wildly. "My revenge... it's gone.." he gasped. He was going to start screaming again, he felt it building inside like a tidal wave. It had been so very long since his anger had been this consuming, he was drowning in it. It was potent, almost overwhelming. He could barely speak. When had he last felt this lost? He thought his head was going to explode, or he might simply shatter into a million pieces, never to recover.

He stood stock-still for several long moments. Trying to breath, trying to regain some semblance of control. He felt like he was losing his mind all over again, but this time he wasn't laughing.

How did the clown manage to escape again and again? The man could put Houdini to shame. It had to be his single greatest talent. He was an escape artist extraordinair. The Batman frowned as he sped through the dark streets.

How much more money was he going to have to pump into the Asylum before they actually put it to good use? When would the day come that they would build a steel vault and throw the clown in? He would give up every penny he owned if he thought it would help, but so far it hadn't.

Fortunately he had a good idea where the clown might be headed. He had stopped by the asylum a few weeks ago after hearing unsettling reports on the clown's behavior.

It was perhaps the closest he'd ever come to depression, Dr. Arkham had said, with an undercurrent of satisfaction the dark knight hadn't missed.. He'd continually refused to leave his cell, instead he lay huddled upon his cot, his eyes blank, his expression lifeless. At first the doctors and inmates alike had been pleased to have a break from the constant hysterical laughter. But after his first explosion of rage those feelings had quickly switched to fear as they saw the real beast within.

It had begun very simply. They had coaxed him out of his cell after a week of reclusiveness. He allowed himself to be prodded and led into the common room. Of course Harley was the first at his side. The other inmates had eventually drifted nearer, all curious. He sat on the couch, leaning against the arm rest, facing the television, but looking right through it. His features were calm without a hint of a smile.

Harley studied him with growing alarm. She instinctively knew that throwing herself at him and sobbing would cause a violent reaction. He never felt pity, and if ever it was directed at him he would quickly become infuriated. But she couldn't help but shrink in horror at the shocking change in him. He'd yet to speak or even look in her direction and for a moment she wondered if he even knew she was there.

"Hi, puddin'." she said, her voice octaves below her usually loud chirp. He stiffened and his head swivelled toward her. His eyes rove up and down her form before he turned back to the tv.

"Harley." he muttered. She bit her lip in frustration and concern. She only had heard the gossip, she didn't really know what had happened to him other than he'd been tortured by some unknown psychopath. She'd also heard of his change in demeanor, but it was far worse than she'd imagined.

He was like another man altogether. She bit her lip harder, trying to force back the tears that were building. It was a battle she was used to losing, and turned her head away lest he see the evidence of her pity and sadness.

Seconds later she felt his fingers grip her chin like a vice and turn her head towards him. A second after that he was on his feet and moving stiffly to the other side of the room. Everyone stayed put except for Harvey Dent. A slight smile played on the handsome, unscarred side of his face. He heard Harley blubbering in misery behind him. Ahead Joker stood at the window, his shaking hands clenched into fists at his side. He was unsure wether to torment the clown or to try and help. Truly, he had no reason to feel anything but hatred and disgust for the Joker, but Harley was another matter. He truly pitied her. She was young, beautiful, sweet, and caring. And the Joker loved to hurt her for it. If he was even more damaged now, it would only make Harley's future bleaker. He wouldn't mind doing something to try and prevent that if he could. She was unusually sweet to him, and never once showed disgust to him for his disfigurement. And on several occasions she had been truly helpful to him without expecting anything in return.

Regardless, he flipped a smooth stone he had found and marked with an X on one side. It would never be as good as his coin, but it was a good enough temporary substitute. Good side. He'd try to help.

"Describe this man to me, I may know who he is, maybe I can help you find him."

"Why?" he immediately snarled. The tension in the man's body was a tad unnerving, but he wasn't too worried.

"Why not?" he replied. "If he can do this to you-"

"He. Got. Lucky." he ground out, his fingers rising and clutching at the iron bars covering the windows.

"Do you want my help or not? I don't want anything from you." Harvey snapped. "If you must know, I'm only trying to help Harley, not you. If I can help you find this person, I'm sure you'll tear him to pieces. That will make you feel better and then I won't have to worry about what you'll do the Harley out of misplaced anger and frustration."

"You can have her. I don't need your help. I don't need anyone's fucking help."

"You're a fool. Your so used to laughing like an idiot all day long that you've forgotten rage, and how to use it. It's crippling you." The clown was on him in an instant, the long, white fingers trying to crush his throat. His teeth were bared and an inhuman roar was making his ears ring. He slammed his fists into the Joker's rib cage and was satisfied when he heard a crack, but the clown did not release him. Before he could strike again the guards were pulling him off.

Harvey did not struggle and the guards shoved him out of the way as the Joker began to thrash and scream. Doctors ran in and watched frightfully as the guards wore him out. His cries grew weaker as more guards pinned him down. A few of his wounds had reopened and his shirt was rapidly growing dark in patches. Dr. Arkham began to stick him with needle after needle until the Joker's eyes rolled up in his head and he passed out with a convulsive shiver.

The Batman had heard this from Harley and Harvey. Their stories were nearly identical. The clown was losing it. Odds were high that he had escaped to find his tormentor and pay him back in kind. There was no point looking anywhere else. He knew the area and if the clown so much as giggle, he would find him.

He held the gun in his shaking hand. For the first time in many years he had no idea what to do. He could burn the place, but it was pointless. The man was dead, what did he care if all his crap got torched?

"The bat will come here looking for me soon.. What do I do, who do I maim, who do I kill?" He heard someone gasping, nearly hyperventilating. The gun fell from his tingling fingers and he saw his chest heaving. He had to calm down, but he could only shake his head and stare into the darkness. "My gun," he murmured and reached down to pick it up. "I need it." He heard voices not far off and moved towards them with drugged slowness. He turned a corner and saw several homeless around a fire. One saw him and screeched in horror. He raised his gun as if his wrist was jerked up by a string. He fired until the clip was empty. He saw blood, it calmed him somewhat. But he could still feel his jaw aching as he clenched his teeth in fury. Their screams and moans were pleasing as well, but it was a pale shadow of the joy he'd hoped to feel as the man was at his mercy. "It's over.." he murmured, reminding himself of his failure.

He turned away and began to head the opposite direction. He had no plans, his gun was empty. "An old hideout... that would be best.." he mumbled. Their was more ammo in his car. He needed it.

He reached the vehicle and loaded another clip. He sat behind the wheel and for a moment, he just stared at the pale moon. "This isn't fair. No one gets away from me... Maybe I can find his family and kill them." He grabbed two wires and struck them against each other until the engine roared to life.

He drove for hours, not really watching where he was going, and not caring the slightest. When he finally slowed down enough to see where he was, he was completely lost. He shrugged, and searched for a place to rest. After another hour he was surrounded by woods, and when he was about to give up he spotted a long driveway. He turned off his head lights and crept up the driveway. He stopped the car and got out. The house before him was old and rotting. No lights were on, no dogs were barking. He tried all the doorknobs and struck out until he went to the back porch and found it nearly fell off the hinges

He stormed inside, his gun drawn. He heard no noise and waited impatiently for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He was still panting, his heart still racing furiously. Through his mind the same words repeated in an endless loop. /He's dead, he's dead, he's dead!/He crept through the kitchen and heard a faucet dripping, heard the refrigerator kick on. His scowl eased somewhat as he realized there might just be someone here to take out some of his frustration on. His eyes scanned the darkened interior. The kitchen faced the living room. To his left was a hallway that led to the staircase. Most likely the bedrooms were upstairs. He slowly made his way up the stairs, doing his best not to make a sound.

All the doors on the second floor were closed, save the bathroom door. Four closed doors. He eased the first open without making a sound and found it to be the master bedroom. He saw a man and a woman entwined in the bed. He pocketed his gun and withdrew a rather large knife. /Who first?/ The man wasn't any threat to him, he was astonishingly scrawny. He was balding and had a spare tire around his waist. His arms and legs were pitifully thin. The woman was a tiny thing, probably smaller than Harley. He went over to her side of the bed and stared down at her. She wasn't pretty by any means, but then again, neither was her mate. He sneered down at them, hating them. Could he wrench her out of bed without waking the man? Could he strangle her without making any noise? Or should he slit the man's throat and then grab her? He would not tolerate any feeble escape attempts. The man suddenly released the woman and rolled away from her, and began to snore. /Excellent/ he thought with a sneer.

He grabbed her by the neck and wrenched her from the bed. The only sound was a muffled thud as her ass hit the carpet. Her husband snored on, blissfully unaware. He squeezed hard until he heard a wet snap. Her larynx was crushed. She was still alive, thrashing wildly, but still suffocating. He watched her eyes bulge and smiled as the capillaries burst, turning the whites of her eyes blood red. /Not long now./ His smile grew wider. She began to convulse beneath him and he sighed in pleasure, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. It wasn't enough, not nearly enough, but it was a start.

She finally stopped twitching and he heard her death rattle. He released her and flexed his fingers before closing them around the hilt of his knife. The husband slept on, none the wiser that his wife had just been murdered. The Joker made his way over to the other side of the bed and without pause sank the knife into the man's chest. The man's eyes shot open, he tried to scream, but the knife was already descending again. He plunged the blade into the man over and over. So lost in the frenzy of violence, he didn't even notice when the man stopped struggling.

When he was done he was covered in blood. His shirt, his coat, his face, and his hands were dripping with gore. He surveyed his handiwork briefly before heading to the other rooms.

Batman snarled in rage. The homeless man before him blubbered in terror, not noticing that the dark knight's fury was not aimed at him. Not one person had seen the Joker in the vicinity of Forsyth and east 9th street. He'd been searching nearly all night for the clown. But as of yet there had been no trace, no whisper, nothing. He was at his wits end. He'd retraced his footsteps again and again, but he'd seen nothing or no one that had given him a hint as to where the clown might be. As mu8ch as he hated to admit it, he needed help.

He got in the 'bat mobile' as Alfred jokingly called it.

"Oracle."

"I'm here."

"I'm having zero luck here."

"I've a map with all his documented hideouts, and anything even remotely possible-"

"This is where I found him. He was barley conscious. He couldn't have even walked a block in that state. I need the layout of this area. A block in each direction. Anything large enough, any abandoned buildings-"

"Got a few very close. There's an empty warehouse at 61472 east 9th. There's an old factory that been closed a few years at 72996 Forsyth. The apartment complex where he was first spotted that night has the whole basement level empty at 75694 Forsyth-"

"I'll check there first, it's the closest." Indeed, the direction appeared on his computer, showing that it was a mere five hundred feet ahead. He made his way down the street and scanned the dark buildings until he spotted the apartment complex. The windows on the first floor were all lit up. He walked around the building and found the basement door. He walked down the 3 stairs and found the door wasn't closed or even locked. He carefully opened it and turned on his night vision. The basement was a maze of shelves full of old tv's and other appliances. Junk was everywhere. He made his way slowly through the mess, listening for any sound of movement. He heard nothing. He was about to leave when a familiar stench hit his nostrils. Any cop could tell what the horrible cloying odor was, and so could he. It was the smell of death, of decaying flesh. There was a corpse here, and he would find it. Even if it had nothing to do with the Joker. He followed his nose, grimacing the whole way. He stopped dead when he saw a figure slumped on the couch. He made his way forward and as he looked at the dead man he realized, the death had been accidental. Then he stepped on something small and cylindrical and saw an empty bullet shell. He bent down to inspect it and found many more that matched and as he drew closer to the man he saw that he was riddled with bullet holes. But the absence of blood made him certain the wounds had been inflicted post mortem. He turned off his night vision and turned on a flashlight. He swept the room and saw nothing else to pique his interest until he flashed his light into the small area that had led into the room he currently stood in.

This room had blood all over the floor. Much of it was on and at the base of a pole that still had ropes clinging to it. He crouched down at the base of the pole and pulled out a tiny knife and a vial and scraped some of the blood off the floor. He carefully filled the vial and capped it, tucking it away in his belt. Then the beam of light slid over something green and he went in for a closer look.

It was a small tuft of green hair. Torn out at the roots, the color went all the way down, it was no dye job. It was the smoking gun.

He'd found the man who had tortured the Joker.

TBC!!


End file.
